


Gifts

by Arabwel, CaliHart, corullance, Cyberrat, goddessofcruelty, himitsutsubasa, house_of_lantis, monroesherlock



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Chris Argent, Cock Warming, D/s, Facials, Figging, Ice Play, M/M, Name-Calling, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaliHart/pseuds/CaliHart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/corullance/pseuds/corullance, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberrat/pseuds/Cyberrat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessofcruelty/pseuds/goddessofcruelty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/himitsutsubasa/pseuds/himitsutsubasa, https://archiveofourown.org/users/house_of_lantis/pseuds/house_of_lantis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroesherlock/pseuds/monroesherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of works written for our Captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cyberrat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/gifts).



> Each chapter is a different fic written as surprise for Claire while she was on holiday.

(continuation for [this here](http://moonlettuce.tumblr.com/post/100796357664/that-stocks-picture-imagine-peter-in-there-maybe-its))

-

When Talia deems Peter properly punished, it is deep in the night and the wolf is hanging limp in the stocks. Chris watches as the Alpha opens up the shackles – he and most of the hunters and werewolves still lucid enough to keep track of what was happening around.

Peter looked like a sullen child – rubbing his wrists and throwing Talia resentful glances. It probably would have been cute had his back and thighs not been slick with dried and drying cum.

And maybe Chris is just imagining things, but he  _thinks_  Peter is throwing him a gaze – short and almost shy, teeth digging into his lower lip – before he scampers away towards the back of the large barn, presumably to lick his wounds in private.

When he immediately gets up and starts swaggering after him, there are leering gazes and crude comments thrown his way.

“Gonna have to be careful, Argent. The little whore isn’t bound anymore.”

“He’s going to rip your dick off.”

“It’s worth a try. Fuckin’ good lay that kid.”

He finds Peter at the water pump, shivering through the cold of the water as he tries to get the sticky liquid off his skin. He is a little surprised when the wolf throws him just a side-long glance and doesn’t attack him – not even verbally.

“Sarcasm fucked out of you?” Chris asks as he bends and grabs a rag. Peter is wary of him – but lets the hunter start washing his back and ass. The pup hisses when the rough fabric of the cloth touches his raw and swollen looking hole, though before Chris can formulate an apology, he’s suddenly leaning forward, hands braced on the edges of the small well, and ass angled out lewdly.

“Why don’t you find out?” he asks softly, “You haven’t had my ass yet…”

Chris is honest enough to admit that the offer is tempting, the plush curve of Peter’s ass drawing his gaze like a magnet. He lets the rag fall down to the ground and steps behind the boy, hands gripping the round cheeks and massaging them roughly.

He listens to Peter’s bitten off whimpers for a while before pulling them far apart, thumbs coming up to rub the swollen rim and watch how the pretty hole mouths at the tips.

“Oh, I’m going to have you,” he murmurs, gently feeding the needy cunt his thumb and fucking Peter on it just to hear the little noises he makes. “But I’ll wait. The first time I’ll wreck you on my cock, I want it to be on a bed when I have enough time to make you  _howl_  with it, Hale.”

He leans forward, thumb cruel in Peter’s ass as he pumps him and uses the other digit to pry the abused hole open.

“You’ll just have to be a good, little pup and not piss your sister off for a while, hmm?”

“You think pretty high of your cock,  _Argent_ ,” Peter growls, though the effect is ruined by how high and brittle his voice has become – by how much his thighs shake and his muscles clamp down around the intruders.

Chris smirks a little and nips at the tip of Peter’s ear.

“You’ll just have to find out, hm?”

 


	2. Himitsutsubasa

“Over and done with”, Stiles muttered as they lowered the box.

Chris snorted, releasing his grip on the rope and letting it fall into the hole. “We’re never done.”

“Peter’s dead.” Derek sighed, picking up a shovel. “And this is over.”

“You honestly believe that?”

Derek dropped another shovelful into the hole. “I don’t know what else to believe.”

Stiles picked up the other shovels and tossed one to Chris. They started filling. Shovelful by shovelful, the wooden box, mountain ash, disappeared under rich, velvety soil. Sweat dripped from his brow by the time Stiles collapsed near his truck, panting hard.

Chris threw a water bottle at the kid and kept working, keeping pace with Derek and praying all the while.

Not that he believed in a God or many gods. Life smacked him upside the head one too many times for that, but he still prayed. 

Somewhere out there, wolves waited and another joined their pack. One with blue eyes and a wild grin, one who had waited far too long to see his family again.

Chris brushed a tear from his eye. 

No. Tears gave away weakness. They shouted doubt and fear. Peter never feared, never doubted Chris.

Chris choked on a mouthful of dust. 

He was putting the third star in his sky in the ground, on Hale property, wishing that he could scream to the sky what that wolf meant to him. But, worst of all perhaps, there was an expectation that he would be happy. He would be so damn happy that his darling star died while he was away and his darling star burned out at the hands of a mad doctor in a mad house.

And Peter, lovely, sharp, and broken Peter, his Peter, slept on, dreaming of running with the wolves who left him behind eight years before. He slept, under thousands of years of eroded rock, hidden under a field of violet flowers, poisonous and biting, every last bit like him.

Peter slept like Chris had never seen him in life. Peaceful.

It was wrong.

Derek huffed as the first streaks of warm, spring light shone climbed up the hill and reached their feet. 

Chris stopped laying out the last of his wolfsbane, the silvery leaves of this particular subspecies forcing his heart into mourning. 

“Thank you for your help.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

And Derek said no more.

“Done?”

Chris tossed the shovel in the back of Stiles’ car. “Yeah. Get to school.”

The kid grinned lazily at Chris and he belatedly realized that school ended a month ago. Allison would have graduated a month ago. He and Victoria should have been there.

Or at least he and Peter should have been there, watching from a distance like ambivalent angels.

“Where are you going?”

Anywhere. Nowhere. The last of the Argent’s, a soldier, there really isn’t a place to be.

“Around.”

The kids nodded, the grin slipping off his lips, and a look like Allison’s, so young and so old, filled him to the brim, waiting to spill over.

“How?”

Chris breathed, breath disappearing into the fingers of dawn. “Moonlight does things to the mind.”

And that’s that.

He found a place a year later, off in the back country of North Dakota. 

No reason to be there. He was not really sure there was anything worth staying for out there, but it worked and his little house off on the hill top reminded him of the feeling he had when he was home, wherever that was over the years and thousand mile treks.

Chris filled his home with his seven-point-five boxes and empty guns.

The kids never called. He never called. 

The townspeople never asked why he spent the next month drafting plans for the house. Why he didn’t have a job or anything that would have been a question in Beacon Hills.

Chris glanced one more time over the blueprints the town clerks gave him when he first moved into the county death trap and he traced each line.

Over a hundred years, five families, and a number of generations lived in that old house. Some for a while, testing out the town before moving on. Some for fifty years, three generations across. People gave that house life before it disappeared into the forest, before it started looking like a house Chris remembered from a lifetime ago.

His fingers traced the lines, following it to one spot he hadn’t personally seen, but had been vetted by the city inspector.

“A small room for storage of small items,” said the tiny script.

Chris looked over the inside of the closet again and he had to disagree. A small room in a smaller room more like.

He padded up the stairs, glad that, unlike in the Hale house, they held his weight. Up and up he went, two flights up, to a room that would, after some work, be a study, or maybe a really large closet.

And curious and curiouser. A small door, just like the blueprints had said, in perfect condition.

Chris ran his fingers over the white, almost eggshell from dirt at that point, paint. The brass knob, slicked with oils from small hands and bigger ones, shone in the dim evening light.

“What are you doing here?”

Chris grasped the knob and twisted, feeling it give easily. Almost too easily, he thought, backing up slightly and readying for a horrifying sight. He pulled out his phone, shining the light inside. 

Darkness, pure inky darkness like a starless night far away from city lights. The light reached about a foot in, where the room meant to stop, but faded out, like the beam reached beyond that.

Chris leaned in closer and found still more darkness. No suspicious scents, sights, or sounds, just darkness. 

One hand.

Nothing attacked him, tried to eat his phone or him in the process. 

Chris leaned in closer. What the hell?

The floor stood true as he pressed a hand down and shoved. No matter where he pointed the light, he would see the floor. The rest of the room was a different matter, engulfed in darkness like no other. 

“Damn it.”

Chris pulled his arms back and closed the door. Nope. Nope. Nope. Not in this life time. This hunter was as done as a burnt steak.

Damn it. 

He could have walked away and left the house entirely. He could have sold it and moved to another town, another state, maybe to Canada where the limit of crazy was kick boxing a bear. 

He padded down the stairs, taking two at a time, and dug up his boxes of ammo and gear. 

Suited up and loaded up, he padded back up the stairs, a little slower this time because he was getting on in years and that wasn’t really a choice. 

The door waited, just as pristine as when he left it.

Chris sighed, hitching his gun over his shoulder and pulling out his machete instead. 

“I swear to God, if I die in this, I called it.”

He opened the door and crawled inside.

* * *

“What the…”

Ouch.

* * *

“I… but… accident… dead… impossible…”

Chris breathed slowly, trying to get air back into his chest. Something, or possibly someone with the heat, rested there. A sharp voice, staccato in tone, rang into his ears. A familiar voice.

“I can’t.”

Chris opened his eyes and sat up, dislodging whatever rested on his chest. 

Hands pressed him down, soft, guiding, but firm and restraining, ready to shove if necessary.

“What’s going on?”

“He was in a coma!”

“He woke up!”

“John Doe is up!”

Chris glanced around, staring at the white, trying not to fight back as the doctor guided him backwards and hummed soothingly into his ear.

A doctor who…

“Stiles?” Chris coughed, almost forcing himself upright with the convulsion. Chris breathed slowly. Oxygen. They had an oxygen mask on his face, and what looked like three IV’s in his arm.

The doctor stared, wide eyed for a moment, before nodding. He patted Chris’ head, pulling up a chair.

“Doctor Stilinski.” No. 

“You’re at Beacon Hills Hospital.” No.

“What’s your name?” No.

“You know it.” Please.

The kid nodded patronizingly. “Pretend I don’t know.”

Chris’ stomach dropped. “Chris. Chris Argent.”

“Well, then, Mr. Argent, what do you remember?”

Chris closed his eyes. “I was in Morgan, North Dakota. In my house, there was a small room in the back of my closet and I climbed inside to get a better look.”

“When you came in, you were dressed like you were going hunting.”

Chris chuckled. What a fright that must have been for the nurses. “I didn’t know what was inside so I prepared for the worst.”

The man stiffened. Obviously, Chris’ definition of worst was different than this Stiles’. And he saw it was a different Stiles. The kid didn’t have the scars on his hands and the shadow of another life in his eyes.

Options. What were his options?

“Do you remember anything else?”

Death. Some elaborate prank played by a terrible writer. Witches. Bad juju. Ghosts. Magic.

“Nope.”

Magic then. Chris bought a magic house and it came back to bite him where it hurt.

Chris exhaled. He would have to see Deaton then, if Deaton was still around in this whacky town.

“When can I get out?”

“You can check yourself out after the nurse is done with your physical.”

Chris sighed. “Any other questions?”

Stilinski glanced out the door for a moment before speaking. 

“How do you know the Hales?”

Dangerous ground when Stiles was not the Stiles he almost killed because the kid managed to get himself demon possessed. 

“What do you mean?”

The doctor stood, leaning over the bed, arms bracketing Chris’ head. The kid’s eyebrows twisted and his mouth turned to a scowl. 

“I mean, the moment we brought you in, Hale was in the director’s office asking for the best physicians and putting a down payment on your care.”

Stiles leaned in closer, grabbing Chris’ face. 

“So who are you?”

Chris breathed slowly.

“Just a lost hunter.”

The doctor released him and called in the nurse.

Close enough then.

* * *

The Hale house looked like it did twenty years ago. Though, that had to be a lie because it was 2018 and there was no way it could look anything like it did when Chris saw it for the first time, not after the ravaging fire. 

And help wise, it was his best shot. Deaton was… around. Sort of. He was off at a veterinarians’ convention or something because Chris knew the man behind the counter even if the man didn’t know him. 

Scott McCall hadn’t changed one bit.

Chris sipped his coffee and winced. Awful stuff. He should have stopped at the diner instead of slogging through with hospital coffee. It was all he could afford though, with the twenty in his pocket he kept for emergencies being the only money he had until he figured out what was going on. 

He was downwind, a carful calculation because he didn’t know what was up. Not yet. 

All he knew was that Derek Hale knew a lot in the other Beacon Hills and if Derek knew a lot there then was a high likelihood that that was true here. Possibly. Sort of.   
Stiles was a doctor here so Derek could be a total dunce. 

“What are you waiting for?”

Chris turned, tossing his lukewarm coffee at the woman. Distraction if she was evil. Accident if she was okay.

The woman pushed back some sopping wet hair and laughed. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” She held out a hand, slightly damp from the coffee. “Cora Hale.”

“Chris Argent.”

Her eyes lit up, not gold, she was too controlled for that, but almost.

“What can I do for your Mr. Argent?”

Chris turned back to the house, keeping his heart steady. “I was just wondering what the Hale house looked like.”

Cora stood next to him. “Huh.”

“I haven’t seen it in a long time…”

Not like this. Not since he discovered the boy who trailed after him was a wolf. Not since he left Beacon Hills. Forever, he thought the first time.

But he kept coming back.

Cora sniffed. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you.”

“You want more than that, hunter.”

“Derek paid for my medical bills.”

“We heard you were found on the side of the road. The Hale foundation takes care of things like that.”

“Stiles told me Derek spoke with the director. The Hale family has a vested interest in me and I want to know why.”

Cora stepped back, heading towards the woods. “Dr. Stilinski should learn to keep his mouth shut.”

Chris sighed, crumpling the coffee cup. 

“Who’s left, Cora?”

The she-wolf stopped.

“Derek, Laura, Peter, and me.”

“How?”

“You know.”

“I really don’t.”

Cora rubbed her cheek with her sleeve, soaking up a little more coffee.

“Jennifer Blake.”

“How?”

And he heard her hiss the word.

“Fire.”

Chris headed back to town, to find a phone and make a few calls.

* * *

Chris ambled up to the front door, marveling at the fine work in the wood. Stained glass depicting a wolf made up about half the door and on either side of the door, windows depicting forests, dark and green, filled the hallway behind them with frosted green light.

He rang the bell.

A tumble of footsteps at first. Trying to catch the scent on a windless day.

Then, stillness as the wolf caught it and realized that underneath it all was wolfsbane.

And finally, the steady falls of feet, methodically making their way to the door.

And right back into Chris’ heart.

Peter Hale, a little grey around the temples, a little older and certainly wiser, opened the door, inhaling like his life depended on the air around Chris.

“What are you doing here?”

Chris glanced down at the soft home wear he had never had the chance to see his Peter in and wrapped his hands into fists.

“I could ask you the same.”

Peter raised a brow.

Chris continued, “Because as of one year ago, you were dead.”

Peter sighed, looking Chris up and down, a shard of longing in his face.

“Come inside then.”

* * *

Different lives, Derek had told them an hour earlier. Alternate universes where subtle changes meant this Peter lost his Chris to a gun when they were teenagers and still skittish about calling their long stares love, and Chris lost his Peter to a child’s immorality when they were older and they never did anything about the lessening distance between them.

“Peter?” Chris swirled his coke – “No rum. Honestly Peter. You’re like this in every life.” – in his cup.

“Yes, Christopher?” The werewolf sipped rum from a glass, stretched out over an armchair trying to process it all.

And could they ever really? After all this time? All these years? Could he do what Derek said and go back? Go back to his rickety old house in North Dakota? Far away from the howl that called him home?

Chris breathed, sighing into his cup. “I don’t really want to go back.”

“That’s good.” Peter drained the glass, standing. “Though I think we would have things to work out, if you stay.”

Like getting Chris declared living, finding the other Argent’s, making sure they were not four flavors of crazy, preparing Beacon Hills for the storm that would eventually come, stabilizing the universe, finding Chris a job and a place to live.

Just the start and it sounded like a superhero’s to-do list.

“There’s nothing left for me at home. Everything’s gone.”

“And everything’s here.” Peter nodded. “Then you’re welcome to stay.”

Peter didn’t press. Wouldn’t have in the other world either. 

Some things stay the same.

Chris stood, putting the glass down on the side table. “Peter?”

“Yes?” The wolf stepped forward, putting them in each other’s space.

“You look wonderful.” Chris smiled, reaching out a hand to brush over Peter’s jaw. “I never told you that.”

Peter smiled, bringing up a hand to clasp over Chris’. 

“And you grew out of your chubby cheeks.”

Chris cradled Peter’s face in his hands. “Do you think?”

Peter breathed, setting his hands on Chris’ chest, letting Chris’ hands wander down his neck and back, settling on his waist. 

Warm, heavy, and there for the first time. 

They moved slowly to the piano and the humming strains of Sinatra that vibrated through the floors. Moons and stars and love.

Peter rested his head on Chris’ chest, listening to a heartbeat thudding quietly away, proof of life.

“I don’t know.” 


	3. Goddessofcruelty

[Continuation of this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2287202) :

-

Peter doesn't know what he expected for his first morning with Chris, but a curtain opening _before the sun has fully come up_ , and a cheerful Christopher practically singing, “Up and at 'em” wasn't even close to it.

Peter opens one eye and tugs the covers over his face.

“I'm _injured_ , Christopher Argent, I'm allowed to sleep in.”

“Nope,” Chris rumbles, popping the 'p', “We've got work to do!”

He gives Peter thirty seconds and when the former firefighter doesn't respond, Chris tugs the covers down, halting and swallowing hard when he sees the bare chest beneath it. Peter sees the reaction and turns his face away so he doesn't have to see the pity at his scars. It's not pity in Chris' eyes, but her reminds himself that he's a professional, and Peter is a patient, and whatever has passed between them is in the past.

“Bandages,” he says, managing to pull on his professional cheeriness. “On your stomach, Hale.”

Peter grumbles but does at the nurse requests, and Chris lets himself get an eyeful of Peter in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, and yeah the younger man might have burn scars, but it doesn't detract from his physique _at all_.

The nurse stores the image away for later and busies himself changing the bandages and then gently rubbing lotion into his burn scars. When he's done, Chris leans back and tosses the medical gloves, steps to the side and reviews the notes from Peter's doctor, but he notices out of the corner of his eyes the way that Peter covers himself carefully, and allows himself a small bloom of satisfaction that he's had an effect on the firefighter.

Chris doles out the doses of Peter's medications, and then steps to the side while Peter's drinking the cup of water, and starts laying out some clothing for him.

“Christopher?” Peter queries, and the older man turns with a tilt of his head.

“I thought we'd relax around the house today and save the tour until next week. Do you need help getting dressed?”

Chris steps forward with the sweatpants and t-shirt, and he knows he's not imagining the way Peter' pupils contract, but the younger man looks down at his mottled skin and shakes his head. “No thank you, Christopher.”

With a brusque nod that hides his disappointment, Chris slides through the door after telling him that he would be back in fifteen minutes.

Peter looks at the leg that didn't heal right, up to the closet mirror that shows him a disfigured face, and a useless waste of space. He knows he's just imagining the interest in Chris' eyes, he's just being friendly and cheerful, _because that's his job, Peter Hale._

Peter struggles into the clothing and breathes a grateful sigh for the softness of it, only then noticing that he's not wearing his own clothing. Chris must keep these sorts of things lying around for patients.

Peter sets his jaw and forces himself to his feet, grabs the cane and stubbornly makes his way down the stairs, collapsing into a kitchen chair, gasping for breath while he's alone.

“Mr. Hale are you okay?” Allison's soft brown eyes are wide with concern as she steps from the pantry.

Peter resists the colorful language that threatens to spill from his lips and forces the mockery of a smile that's all he's got left. “Bit out of breath, sorry for startling you. I'm not quite back in shape yet.”

“Well,” she says after a beat of silence, “I'm sure you'll get there. Can I get you some breakfast?”

“Just coffee, thanks,” Peter nods.

“He'll have a veggie omelette with eggbeaters and a glass of juice with his coffee.”

Peter turns to arch a brow at the man standing in the doorway. “I don't recall signing up to have you bully me,” he grumbles.

Chris flashes a genuine smile. “You didn't read the fine print then. For the next six weeks, Peter Hale, I _am_ the boss of you.”


	4. Corullance

“Well, isn’t this a sight?” Argent says as he strides into the warehouse where the hunters had been keeping Peter.

“Finally.” Peter says from his sitting position, crossing his arms and trying to look unaffected. “Did you stop for coffee on the way?”

Chris snorts as he enters the room, checking the corners and dark areas, ignoring the wolf’s comments entirely.

“I would have if I’d known you wanted any, but it seems a collar and a leash would have been more appropriate.” Argent smirks down at Peter as he approaches.

“That’s not funny.” Peter snarls. Hunters must have a very different sense of humor from the rest of humanity. Putting a werewolf in a kennel is most decidedly not funny. At least it’s a cage for a large-sized dog. Still, it’s getting very cramped and if Argent thinks he’s going to just sit here and be laughed at he’s got another thing coming.

“Come on, Peter. It’s a little funny.” Chris says, crouching in front of the cage to bring them face-to-face. Except for the bars between them.

“Stop playing games and get me out of here before the children see.” Peter growls.

Chris’ grin widens and Peter has a sudden sinking feeling.

“No one else is coming, Peter, just me.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Did they not notice? That’s a bit inept, even for them.”

“Oh, they noticed. We took the hunters down when they came for the rest of the pack. I volunteered to come collect you.” Argent replies, still with that unsettling grin.

“How magnanimous of you.” Peter dead pans.

“I think so.” Chris says, rising to his feet, which sparks jealousy through Peter. He’d love to be able to stretch out completely. Even werewolves get sore after a while.

“So,” Chris begins again, with an authoritative lilt to his voice. “Now that we’ve established the position you’re in, what are you going to do about it?”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, Argent.” Peter says, getting frustrated. “Just let me out of here.” Peter sighs. “I’ll buy you a drink at the bar.” He’s going to need a drink after this.

“Oh, I think your freedom is worth a bit more than just one drink, don’t you?” Chris asks, and Peter has to ask himself if Chris has gone crazy or if he’s the one who’s losing it. “These hunters certainly seemed to think they’d get a good price from you.”

Peter sniffs. “Slavers, then, not real hunters. Ridiculous.” Ridiculous that he got caught by such a disgusting pathetic rabble of degenerates.

“Now, Peter, you make it sound like admiring your ass is a crime.”

Peter is about to respond with a quip, but he chokes on his words when he realizes what has been said and more importantly who did the saying.

“Did you think I hadn’t noticed?” Argent asks kneeling again, voice low and intimate, sending shivers through Peter. “Hadn’t noticed the way you put yourself on display? Bending over in those jeans, lounging around posing like a centerpiece.”

Peter’s jaw drops open, mesmerized by Argent’s words and voice.

“I bet you would have enjoyed being found like this by the pack, all wrapped up and on display. I think you like this. I like you this way.” Chris brushes his fingers across Peter’s white knuckles that are clutching the bars of the cage.

The contact makes Peter flinch back to reality. This must be a trick. Argent is just trying to embarrass him, and yet…

And yet he can smell Chris’ arousal. It smells like heaven. Peter’s eyes drift close and he relaxes slightly, that delicious scent making him melt.

“Yeah.” Chris croons, “That’s it, Peter. You look so good like this, wide-eyed and innocent, but you’re not, are you? Not with a mouth like that and your eyes glazed over with lust. You look drugged, Peter. Did they drug you?” Chris asks, voice demanding and clear.

“No.” Peter answers dimly, still lost in that thick scent, “No, just wolfsbane.” To make him weak.

“Good.” Chris says with a satisfied smile. “Now, I’ll ask you again,” Chris reaches through the bars and strokes gentle fingers along Peter’s jaw. “What’s your freedom worth to you?”

Peter’s breath hitches. Chris’ scent is heavy in the air, sweet and strong and heady and he’s half hard in his pants and he answers before he thinks.

“Whatever you want.” That was not the answer he intended to give but he finds himself unwilling to retract the statement.

“And if I want to use your mouth, have those sweet lips stretched around my cock? If I want to paint your face with my cum?”

Peter’s mouth falls open without conscious thought and his cock twitches. His eyes flick up in surprise. Is there something in the air? There must be because he wants this. He wants everything Chris has said. He wants Chris in his mouth, the taste of him on his tongue, to be covered in his scent. He wants to be good for Chris.

“I can see that you want it Peter.” Chris strokes two fingers across Peter’s bottom lip and his tongue flicks out to taste. “I want to hear you though. Say it, Peter. Tell me.”

“I want…” Peter pants, questions parading through his mind. Is this wise? What does Argent want? Does he really want Peter? Is it all that simple? Does he have some other game he’s playing? Peter quickly categorizes all the ways this could be used against him in the future and the counteractions he would take for them. He calculates that even the worst outcome is not so bad. It’s worth it.

“I want to taste you.” He says, giving himself over. “Please.”

Chris takes a sharp breath, “Oh, Peter.” His hands brush Peter’s hair, stroking softly through the bars, worshipping, “You’re so perfect like this.”

Chris opens his pants and he’s hard and his perfect cock looks so delicious that Peter’s mouth waters and he maybe whimpers.

And Chris teases him, making him push against the bars and stick his tongue out to get a taste, before getting close enough that Peter can just barely lap at the head of his cock, licking up all that pre-cum, all those beads of liquid, just for him.

“Such a good boy for me, Peter.” Chris says and Peter preens below him. “Now open your mouth and hold still, just like that.”

Peter positions himself between the crisscrossing bars and opens for Chris. He’s rewarded when Chris slides in slow and smooth and so fucking good. He continues slowly thrusting, almost gentle, and Peter applies his tongue with enthusiasm, swirling and flicking at the underside of the head.

Chris groans and Peter tries not to grin around his mouthful.

“So eager.” Chris whispers harshly. “So eager to be on your knees, aren’t you?”

Peter makes a noise, he’s not sure what it’s supposed to mean, but it doesn’t matter, because Chris speeds up his thrusts finally and Peter wants to taste his pleasure. He wants to see Chris come apart.

“Oh, fuck, Peter.” Chris says, gritting his teeth, “I wanna…want to—“

There’s little warning, besides Chris pulling out suddenly and then warm, sticky strings of come are dripping off Peter’s cheeks and Chris is making the most delicious moans and Peter’s tongue is searching desperately for a taste.

He whines, opening his mouth again, until Chris comes close enough for Peter’s tongue to clean him off.

“Greedy for every last drop.” Chris sounds proud and a ripple of satisfaction runs through Peter. “Just like I knew you would be.”

Chris hand at the bars beckon him forward and Chris’ fingers make contact with his cheek, smearing his cum across Peter’s skin.

“Gorgeous.” Chris says like he doesn’t know he’s said something and he pulls his hand back. Peter leans his head against he bars, suddenly exhausted. The spell of desire is broken and he doesn’t know what to expect next.

“Let’s get you out of there and into bed, hmm?” Chris says.

Peter looks up, mostly hopeless.

“I’m going to take care of you, Peter.”

 


	5. Monroesherlock

mémoire

In all honesty, Peter doesn’t remember much of that night himself. One second, it’s snowing outside and they’re laughing in the car about what would make a good gift for his nephew’s wedding and the next, there’s a paramedic telling him to calm down, shining a light in his eyes, and snapping a brace around his neck. He can’t find Chris-god-  _he can’t find Chris_.

Then he’s in a hospital bed with a busted collarbone and his arm in a sling. He’s  _lucky_ , they say. Apparently, it should be much worse. If this I what luck feels like, Peter never wants to be lucky again. Whenever he asks for Chris, they tell him that the man is still in surgery or he’s too tired for visitors and Peter knows it’s  _bullshit._  Something’s wrong.

Derek comes to visit him on the second day, his eyes tired and his hair a mess. He’s just flown in.

“It’s probably for the best that you don’t see him yet.” Derek says. “Just…just trust me on this. Everything’s gonna be okay, Uncle. You just have to be patient.”

Peter’s never really been good at  _patient_. That’s probably why he drags himself out of his hospital bed that same night and limps his way down the hall to the room the nurses told him Chris was staying in. His daughter is there, talking to him in soft tones. He’s awake, blue eyes misty but ultimately alert. Why the hell had everyone tried so hard to keep them apart-

“Peter? What-what are you doing out of bed? You’re not supposed to come in here yet.” Allison wipes her face hastily when she catches sight of him before trying to usher him out of the room.

“What the hell are you talking about? Chris, what’s going on-”

“Peter no. You need to go-”

“Peter? Peter Hale?” Chris tries to raise himself up but groans in pain. “Why the hell are you here?” He gasps.

“What do you mean  _why am I here_?” He cries incredulously. “Where else would I be?” Why is Chris acting this way? What happened?

“Peter please. Just step outside with me for a moment.” Allison pleads. “I promise I’ll explain everything. Let’s just go, okay. Get some rest, dad.”

“Wait Allison-”

“I’ll be right back, dad.” Allison reaches for Peter’s shoulder but then rethinks it, her eyes falling onto his injury. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t just take him out into the hallway but down to the coffee machine in the lobby. She pours him a cup, adds two sweet n lows and a packet of creamer before handing it to him. Peter takes a sip and grimaces. It’s terrible.

“What happened?” He finally asks.

“The accident. Dad’s seatbelt malfunctioned. He went through the windshield.” She cringes, shudders visibly, her eyes closing tight. “The impact nearly killed him. He…he’s struggling with his memory.” She refuses to meet his eye.

“His memory? What do you mean?”

“Well he hit his head. He’s having some trouble recalling some things.”

He senses her hesitation. “What  _things_ , Allison? What can’t he remember?”

“Well…,” she rubs the back of her head, “The doctors believe he’s lost  _at least_ the last ten years.”

_Ten Years?_

_Gone?_

_Just gone?_

Their first  _real_  date?

Their Condo downtown?

Chris’s proposal?

Their wedding?

All of that just  _gone?_

“Peter? It’s gonna be okay. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll remember. We just have to give it time.”

_Give it time._


	6. Goddessofcruelty

Chris signs the paper with a flourish, and leans forward to shake the man's hand. The muffled whimper below goes unnoticed in the shuffle of papers. “I think you'll find this deal quite profitable.”

The man nods and takes his newly signed contract and walks out of Chris' office.

Chris reaches for his intercom and buzzes his secretary. “No more appointments today.”

He leans back, smirking slowly as the man kneeling below the desk follows, even though he must be sore from kneeling for the past few hours, keeps his mouth in place aroudn Chris' cock, even though his jaw must ache.

“Such a good boy for me, Peter,” Chris praises, stroking a hand through the younger man's hair gently, before changing his grip to a cruel tug and suddenly starts fucking roughly into Peter's throat. The blue eyes open wide but otherwise he doesn't react, just allows Chris to use him for whatever purpose he deems fit.

Chris halts as he feels the first blush of warmth in his gut, and pulls fully out of the kneeling man's mouth with a soft groan. He tugs Peter upward by his hair, and forces him to bend over the desk Chris had so recently been shaking hands over. He tugs the blue satin and lace panty down until it's just beneath the curve of Peter's ass, parts his cheeks with a harsh grip, and then tugs the plug holding him open free, and sets it to the side.

Chris slides so easily into that hole, already slick from being used earlier, and he pulls Peter's arms behind his back, grasps his wrists at the small of his back with one hand, and lets the other glide down to pluck viciously at already puffy red nipples.

Peter convulses around him, and Chris reaches down and clamps his hand around Peter's achingly hard cock like a vise, and then snaps his hips hard, fucking ruthlessly into Peter a few more times, until he shudders and pulses inside Peter, groaning softly against the back of the other man's neck as he rocks his hips through the aftershocks.

Chris pulls out and slides the plug back in, in one smooth movement, and then turns Peter to face him, claims the younger man's lips in a fierce kiss, curls a calloused hand around the long neglected cock still jutting out before him, and starts stripping it while he fucks his tongue into Peter's mouth. It's rough and it's too fast, but Peter's whimpers are swallowed by Chris, and he continues the brutal pace until the helpless man trembles and spills over Chris' hand.

Peter isn't even allowed to catch a breath before the bitter taste of his own release is shoved into his mouth, and he laps at it, cleaning Chris' hand thoroughly, tongue sliding along the skin obediently.

Once Chris is satisfied, he pushes Peter back down to his knees and taps his jaw. Peter's eyes are still glazed over as he parts his lips and Chris settles the weight of his cock onto Peter's tongue, slides himself forward and resumes his paperwork.


	7. House_of_lantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Wolfsbane and Misery
> 
> AO3: house_of_lantis
> 
> Tumblr: theserpentgirl
> 
> Based on this Prompt: http://imaginesteenwolf.tumblr.com/post/94174559244
> 
> Pairing: Peter/Chris
> 
> Rating: Explicit
> 
> Warnings: Dubcon; Angst

Chris spun the well-made metal with his fingers, examining the last of Allison’s specially crafted arrowhead. He had buried her in a private ceremony, with just her closest friends in attendance. It was nothing like the paparazzi-fueled fiasco of Kate’s funeral, for which Chris was grateful. He wasn’t able to go through Allison’s things and gladly allowed Lydia and Melissa McCall to take over. They kept her bedroom intact; and Lydia had asked permission to give some of Allison’s clothes to Malia.

The only things that Chris could bear to go through were Allison’s weapons, the tools that he had taught her to use in her mission.

“Hello, Christopher.”

He looked up to see Peter’s familiar silhouette in the light of the storage area. He really wasn’t in any mood to deal with whatever had brought Peter Hale off the sidelines. “I’m a little busy here. What do you want, Peter?”

“What I’ve always wanted.”

The werewolf growled as he took three steps into the storage area, grabbing the front of Chris’s shirt with clawed hands, and pressed him against the back wall.

“Peter!” He grabbed the werewolf by the shoulders…and saw that he was covered in blood. “What happened? Why is there blood everywhere? Is everyone okay—“  

He chuckled, leaning closer to brush the tip of his nose against Chris’s neck, inhaling deeply. “It’s not mine. Or anyone that matters, to be perfectly frank.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing that he didn’t deserve,” Peter said, pressing the front of his wide, muscular chest against Chris. His claws were still out and he raised his blood-soaked hand, showing the burgundy crusted tips to him, curling his fingers together to trace the claws down Chris’s neck. He stopped struggling and met Peter’s blue eyes. “Don’t be afraid, Christopher, I’m not here to kill you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You smell like Wolfsbane and misery,” Peter said, congenially. “Ironically, I know that scent all too well. You wear it, Derek wears it, and sometimes, pretty little Stiles wears it. I’m starting to develop a rather disturbing kink for that particular combination.” He licked Chris’s neck. “A real  _taste_  for it.”

Chris held Peter by the shoulders, his hands going to Peter’s face, forcing the werewolf to look at him. “Hale. Peter! Get a grip—“

Peter growled, low and throaty. He grabbed Chris’s wrists and pinned them against the wall over his head, claws cutting into his skin. “Don’t test my control right now, Christopher, because you will find that I do not have any at the moment.”

“Listen to me—“

“Oh, I am listening to you. I can hear  _everything_  you don’t say,” Peter cajoled, going back to licking Chris’s neck again with long, wet drags of his tongue on Chris’s skin. “ _Mmmm_ …right now, your heart is racing in your chest and you still stink of fear and misery, but you are definitely aroused.”

Peter slipped his thigh between Chris’s legs and pressed close. Chris choked back his groan, tugging to free his hands.

“Stay,” the werewolf teased, chuckling again. He crossed Chris’s wrists together and grabbed him with one hand, the other slipping down between them to palm at Chris’s hard cock. His hand was warm and knowing, claws dragging against the denim. “We’ve been teasing each other with this for years – decades, if we’re being honest.”

“Peter, you’re not in your right mind—“

“Clearly,” he said, amused.

Chris stared at him. “We shouldn’t do this.”

Peter met his gaze, some of the insanity ebbing away. He looked monstrous with the blood drying on his skin, but Chris could see the human in the werewolf returning to the surface.

“Christopher…you make me want things that I shouldn’t.”

He released Chris’s hands and Chris thought he’d gotten through to the werewolf, when he found himself turned around and shoved face first against the cement wall.

“Peter!”

Peter’s hand in the middle of Chris’s back pinned him in place. He tried to push against Peter’s hold on him, but he couldn’t budge the werewolf.

“Do I need to remind you to stay?” Peter said, chuckling softly.

Chris turned to see Peter examining the work table and picking up a small tube of gun oil lubricant. He flicked up the top with his clawed thumb and grinned at Chris.

“Take down your pants, Christopher.”

“You don’t want to do this.”

“Do it or I’ll slice the jeans off of you.”

Chris took a shuddering breath, reaching for the front of his jeans. He undid them quickly and shoved the denim down his hips to his thighs. “If you’re planning to prep me with your claws, I will kill you as soon as you’re done.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, moving closer against Chris. “Give me your hand.”

He felt the cool liquid of the lubricant squeezed onto his fingers.

“Get yourself ready for me.”

Chris hesitated, wondering if Peter would stop if Chris truly didn’t want to do this. A part of him wasn’t sure, but he also didn’t want to stop. He reached behind him and carefully pressed his wet fingertips against his hole. He bit back his groan as he pushed two fingers inside of him, shivering from the sensation. It had been a long time since he touched himself like this – he was certain that the last man he’d slept with was Peter Hale. And he felt his cock harden even more, knowing that Peter was watching him fuck himself with his own fingers.

He felt Peter’s hand leave his back and he turned to see the werewolf tugging at the front of his dress slacks, letting them fall to the ground. His cock was hard, the foreskin was pushed back and the head was flared and red, already dripping with pre-come. Peter grinned, squeezing lube into his own hand and stroking it along his cock.

“That’s enough,” Peter said, gently pulling Chris’s fingers from out of him. He pressed his chest against Chris’s back, holding him in place, the heat of his body seeping through their clothes, warming Chris up. He felt the tip of Peter’s cock pressing against his ass and he groaned when Peter moved into him with a long, steady push.

“Fuck. Peter…”

Peter growled in reply, pulling his hips back slowly. Chris trembled, clenching at the feel of his sensitive rim dragging along the hard length and width of Peter’s cock, moving back into him and pulling out. Claws hands gouged the cement wall by Chris’s head and Peter gave a powerful thrust, snapping his hips quickly.

Chris groaned, arching his back and pushing back against Peter, unable to move too much with the werewolf holding him against the wall. “Peter…Jesus…slow down!”

He gave a deep thrust and stilled, chest rising and falling quickly, leaning against Chris’s back. For a long moment, Chris only heard the sound of blood rushing in his ears and Peter’s guttural growls against the back of his neck. Carefully, Peter circled his hips and Chris closed his eyes, letting out a pleased whimper. He loved that, loved the feeling of being stirred. He sucked in a breath when he felt Peter’s cock stroke against his prostate, legs trembling from the intense pleasure.

Peter pressed his teeth against the skin of his neck, mouthing him, as he quickened his thrusts at the perfect angle. All Chris could do was reach up and hold onto Peter’s wrists, twisting his hips as Peter fucked him raw.

He reached down to curl his hand around his cock and Peter let out a warning growl and a sharp nip against his neck.

“Wait for me, Christopher,” he whispered, reaching down to curl his hands carefully around Chris’s hips. “Wait for me.”

Chris stroked his hand on his cock, the pleasure encompassing him as his ass throbbed around Peter’s cock. He heard Peter panting breathlessly behind him, hands tightening on him, and claws digging into his skin.

“Fuck, do it, Peter!” Chris husked, holding himself up with one hand on the wall. “Come on, come on!”

Peter grunted loudly with his thrusts, shoving Chris up and against the wall; Chris groaned, throwing back his head against Peter’s shoulder, hand squeezing tightly under the head as he came, dribbling over his fingers as Peter shuddered against him.

“Christopher…”

He opened his eyes and raised his head, turning to look at Peter. The werewolf looked…devastated; it was like looking into a mirror. He was certain that if he had better senses, he’d smell the misery coming off of him, too.

Peter didn’t say anything, but slipped his softening cock from Chris gently. He looked at the work table and grabbed a cleaning rag, wiping the come and lube dripping down Chris’s thighs. He pulled apart Chris’s fleshy cheeks, a thumb gently circling his used hole, and Chris hissed, pulling away, too sensitive to be touched.

They ignored each other, putting their clothes to rights. Chris took a fortifying breath and turned, facing Peter.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I took care of a mutual enemy.”

Chris nodded. “Is everyone all right?”

Peter flicked his eyes at Chris. “As well as can be expected.”

“This…”

_This can’t happen again._

_This shouldn’t have happened at all._

_This wasn’t something Chris needed in his life right now._

_This wasn’t healthy for either of them._

Peter smirked at Chris, seemingly reading whatever expression was on Chris’s face correctly. He turned away, the smirk dropping from his lips.  

“You must think I’m a monster.”

“I’m not sure what I believe anymore,” he offered; it was as honest as he could afford to get with Peter Hale.

Peter stared at him with very blue eyes. “I won’t bother you again, Christopher.”

He stood in the quiet of his storage area, watching wordlessly as the werewolf walked out of his life again. 


	8. Calihart

Stiles and Allison crept quickly and quietly through the darkened neighborhood, weaving around houses and trees. A pair of werewolves followed them through the darkness until they came to their destination, Allison checking to make sure the coast was clear before waving the pair closer. Erica came forward and cupped her hands together. Allison set her foot in Erica’s hands and pushed off the ground as Erica launched her skyward, landing neatly on the roof of the house. Boyd tossed up a coil of rope, and Allison secured it to the chimney before letting the end drop back to the ground. A crackle of static sounded in their ears.

_“I still think this is a horrible idea, Stiles.”_

“Codenames!” Stiles hissed as he scrambled up the rope. The voice on the other end of the communication unit sighed only to get cut off.

_“Are you and Hawkeye in position yet, Batman?”_

“Not yet, give us a minute my good Captain.” Erica followed Stiles up the rope with a backpack full of their gear. They moved to the other side of the roof and settled behind the cover of a tree, Erica handing them the binoculars as Allison shifted onto her stomach.

“We are in position, Captain,” Allison said calmly, looking up and down the street. “Target 1’s car is stable.”

_“I can’t believe you guys are making me do this.”_

“One more protest means a name change, Superman. Do you want to be the Hulk instead?” Stiles asked.

_“I hate all of you.”_

“Black Panther is keeping a lookout on the ground, this is Catwoman moving to make sure our exit stays clear,” Erica said, clapping Allison and Stiles on the shoulder before leaving. Stiles fixed his heat sensing binoculars on the house across from them and made a few small adjustments.

“Target 1 is located in the living room…target 2 appears to be in the office. Little motion detected,” Stiles reported.

_“That’s good, just keep us updated.”_

“Roger that, Captain.” Stiles held back a snicker and shifted into a more comfortable position, keeping his eyes on the house. “Hawkeye, can you activate the bugs you planted?” Allison reached up to her ear and winced at the squeal of feedback before she adjusted the volume level.

“Target 2 is involved in a phone call,” she reported after a minute. “Target 1 appears to be watching the Real Housewives of Orange County.”

“Seriously?” Stiles said, looking over at her. “Superman, your uncle has no taste. I would have at least gone for Beverly Hills.”

 _“I know you can’t see it, but he’s glaring at you,”_  the Captain relayed.

“Shh!” Allison commanded, waving a hand at Stiles. “Target 2 has ended the call and is saying something about a hockey game. Target 1 just refused to change the channel.” Stiles refocused on the house.

“Target 2 is on the move,” he added. Allison grabbed her scope and peered through it, keeping one hand at her ear.

“Target 2 is shouting. Target 1 is…being himself.” Allison winced. “Target 2 is using rather colorful language to insult target 1. That isn’t something I needed to hear.” Stiles snickered and followed the moving heat signature. A sudden flash had him blinking spots from his eyes.

“Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired. Target 2 is armed and angry.” Stiles set aside the binoculars for a regular pair and aimed them at the windows.

“Shots confirmed, I definitely heard a silencer,” Allison said while he was moving. “Target 1 may be injured.” Stiles quickly adjusted the focus and scanned the windows until he saw movement. “The targets are moving out of range of the bugs,” she added, irritated.

“I don’t think you want to hear what’s going on, Hawkeye,” Stiles said, watching as Chris shoved Peter up against a wall in clear view of the window. “Target 1 is confirmed to be injured, bleeding from the lower left abdomen. And there goes his shirt, the first casualty.” Stiles reached out and lowered Allison’s scope without looking away. “Target 2 appears to be using his mouth to silence target 1.”

“What?!” Allison squawked beside him. Stiles winced.

“Target 2—ah, screw it—Mr. Argent just shoved his gun into the wound and twisted. Peter is flashing some serious wolf eyes. And there’s…hands in hair…some groping…Mr. Argent’s teeth have gotten involved and there’s more bleeding. Oh hey, they’re grinding now.” Allison groaned and started shoving things back into the backpack. “Mr. Argent has a handful of Peter’s butt. Now he’s dropping the gun. Wow, Allison, I didn’t know your dad was that strong—hey!” Allison grabbed the binoculars from him and Erica appeared to drag him back over the roof. “Wait, guys, I was watching that! Come on!”

Erica threw Stiles down to Boyd’s waiting arms, followed by Allison and the bag, then Erica untied the rope and jumped down herself. The girls got a tight grip on Stiles’s arms so he couldn’t break free as they walked away.

“Suspicions confirmed,” Allison said grimly. “Target 1 and target 2 are engaged in a physical relationship.”

_“I told you all this was a bad idea.”_

 —

Peter grinned up at Chris as they dropped into the bed. “Maybe that will teach them not to spy on us,” Chris said. Peter snorted as Chris leaned down over him.

“I think the Stilinski kid was only encouraged. We can talk about it later. Now you need to make up for shooting me.”

“Your wish is my command.”

 


	9. Goddessofcruelty

Peter tugs at the chains, hips hitching forward as he whines behind the werewolf-proof gag, fucking into the air as he tries to get away from the incessant tingling burn in his ass. He doens't know what Chris has done to him, but whatever it is, he can't help the way his ass clenches around the intruder, or the way he's shuddering every time because of the heat it releases.

Chris chuckles deep and low. “I had a feeling that would break through those werewolf healing powers.”

Peter is trussed up, pretty as a picture in wolfsbane infused rope and magically enhanced chains, squirming and whimpering as the ginger plug Chris had carved does what it's supposed to, releases a fresh burst of it's oil every time Peter moves.

“Beautiful,” Chris murmurs as he runs a piece of ice along the bowed spine and Peter makes a noise of surprise as his involuntary reaction causes a new wave of heat inside him.

Chris moves the ice to Peter's nipples next, until the buds are peaked tightly, and then he drops the ice and uses both hands to tug at the taut nipples, grinning as Peter clenches around the ginger root once more.

Peter drools around the gag and goes limp in his bonds, trembling with the overstimulation of the heat and cold, and Chris gently frees the gag from between his lips.

Immediately please tumble from Peter's lips, “Please Chris I need – I need you to fuck me, please.”

Instead, Chris slides his thumb along Peter's lips, eyes darkening as the wolf flicks his tongue out against the digit, and then suckling strongly as the hunter pushes his thumb into Peter's mouth, pressing down on Peter's tongue and getting a firm grip of his jaw, as Chris' free hands reaches back and tugs at the ginger plug.

Peter breathes a muffled 'thank you” but Chris only pulls it out to shove it back in, fucking the ginger roughly into Peter, until those gorgeous eyes well up with tears, and he tries to plead around the thumb holding his tongue in place.

Chris lets him try, croons sympathetically. “It's all too much for you, isn't it Peter? The heat in your ass, the cold against your skin? All you want is for it to end.”

The hunter slides his slippery thumb out of the wolf's mouth and slides it along Peter's cock, which hasn't once flagged this entire time, then he wraps his hand around it, jacks Peter in an opposing rhythm to the one he's fucking into his ass with the ginger.

Peter whines as his orgasm starts to build, and he squirms and writhes to get away from Chris' torturing hands, but he doesn't call out his safeword, and so Chris continues until Peter's breath is hitching and he's panting, and only then does Chris slide the plug free. He uses a cooling lotion to lube two fingers up, and then slides them easily inside Peter, the wolf crying out softly at the new sensation of cold, and then Chris twists his wrists and crooks his fingers, and gives Peter the command he's been waiting for.

The wolf finally lets go and shakes in his bonds as he comes, Chris working him until Peter whimpers, and then slowly freeing him from the restraints, and pulling the wolf into his arms, wrapping him in a blanket and giving him gentle praise and soft kisses until he comes back to himself.


	10. Arabwel

“Well that was surprisingly easy.”

Chris nodded, eyeing the stack of books on Peter’s arms. Of course, the werewolf did not waver under the weight, but the precariousness of the pile 

“Time to head back, then?”

Peter grinned. “Now why would we do that, Christopher? They’re not expecting us back before Thursday, at the earliest.” 

Chris groaned. Of course Peter would say that. 

They had expected the negotiations for the book they came here for to take days, the crotchety old antiquarian in possession of it not fond of werewolves or Argents. But, Stiles said it was needed “for Science!” so they had decided to make the road trip here to get the book - only to discover that the man was dead and his granddaughter despairing to catalogue everything for shipping back to Seattle. The granddaughter who knew Peter from college and had met her wife through him, and had gladly given them the book and then some, leading to this, the two of them standing outside the shop with a pile of books two feet high and a few days to kill. 

Vegas was not Chris’ first choice of vacation destinations; his preference was for seaside, and he’d been thinking about asking Peter about spending a weekend on the coast, somewhere small and quiet, far from prying eyes and noses. Not that he thought that anyone didn’t know about them, but he’d always prefered to keep his relationships private, his affections low-key. 

Unlike Peter, who was as flamboyant and dramatic as they come and who loved cities, the lights and the attractions, fine restaurants and fancy shows. Chris could see it in the glint of Peter’s eyes, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that had began appearing more frequently in the past year. 

So, with a long-suffering sigh, he said yes. 

Two days later, when Peter looked at with him again, mouth twisted in a smirk but eyes crinkled with happiness, Chris said yes again. 

They don’t make it back to Beacon Hills until Thursday, just as originally planned. The six hour drive passed without any incidents, full of bickering and companionable silence just like it had been on the way in. The only difference now was the glint of sunlight off their rings, simple matching bands of white gold. 

**

“Holy shit dd you marry a stipper?!” Stiles was the one to notice the ring on Peter’s finger first. 

Peter grinned and glanced across the table at Chris, whose mouth was twitching in a mix of amusement and don’t-you-dare-Hale, although it might have to become Hale-Argent, Peter mused, or Argent-Hale. 

“No, Stiles, I did not,” Peter didn’t move his eyes away from Chris. “But believe me, Chris can work a pole like a-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Derek slammed into him, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him to the wall. “What did you do to him?”

Around them, the loft was descending into chaos, all of the kids shouting at the same time, Allison and Lydia converging on Chris as Peter gasped for breath and fought the urge to sink his claws into Derek’s arm. 

**

Apparently, they had been too low-key. But when they convinced everyone that no, this was not an evil scheme, drugs, magic, demonic possession, mirror universe or a plot to ruin what was left of Sheriff’s sanity, the reception the pack threw for them was anything but. 

Their honeymoon took them to the seaside.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I need to tag anything.


End file.
